


Fracture

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [31]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way of the Whills is a journey of excruciating self-discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> betabetabeta credit and thanks to: writestufflee, MerryAmelie, and Norcumi
> 
> ___________________________________________________________
> 
> Doing an early evening Thursday post because tomorrow looks to be busy.
> 
> ____________________________________________________________
> 
> While I don't think the graphic warning tag applies, this is....this is not a nice chapter.

Republic Date 5201: 4/24th

The Cathedral, Entrios

 

He was staring ahead, unblinking. He saw the blurred tops of his boots; too-plush carpeting; gray impression of wall—marred by large swaths of black, accented by red streaks.

The floor was littered with broken bits of metal, pieces of plastine, hints of blue and green. There was no sound in the room but his own breath, though that was often interrupted by the chime of the intact comm at his side. He ignored it; eventually it stopped.

Everything in the room was coated in a thick layer of ice. Every breath emerged as a plume of white mist.

The black pyramids on the floor were also intact, preserved by their nigh-indestructibility. The second one opened like a flowering blossom, allowing Darth Zannah’s projection to form in the air above it. He hadn’t known that Zannah’s holocron could activate independent of touch. In retrospect, it wasn’t all that surprising.

Zannah gazed at him, but he said nothing. If she had something to say, she would do so in her own time.

“It was not your fault,” Zannah said.

It was utterly unlike the Sith to offer sympathy of any sort. It drew his attention when little else would have. “There are those that will believe otherwise.”

“Then they are fools.” Zannah did not sound impressed. “You are not responsible for today’s events.” She paused. “The next time that noisy device turns on, you should answer it.”

He turned his head to look at her, trying to focus. Every blink of his eyes felt like sandpaper dragged over sensitive skin. “Why do you care?” he asked in honest puzzlement.

“I don’t,” Zannah said, frowning. “But _you_ do. There are Sith who would have decried your feelings for your brethren, but they were idiots who have forgotten the strength that such bonds can create. Do not discard that strength now.”

Something dropped onto the front of his tunics. He looked down and was momentarily puzzled by the damp spot before his vision blurred over again. Surprised, he touched his face with his torn, bleeding hands. His fingertips came away wet.

“I didn’t think I could do that right now,” he whispered.

Something in Zannah’s expression softened. “Rage and grief are more closely related than most beings realize.”

“Yes,” he said, thinking of what he had done. “They are.”

The comm started chiming, and even to his ears it sounded more insistent than before. He placed his hand on it, feeling its vibration with his fingers.

“Answer it,” Zannah ordered.

He picked it up, switching it on. He had no idea who was calling, but based on the pattern of strikes he’d felt against the Lifebond’s shields, he could make an educated guess. “Yes?”

“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon sounded excited, frustrated, and relieved, all at once.

Venge breathed out screaming, shoulder-cracking tension, breathed in again. For now, he was not going to bother with correcting the misconception.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

_6 hours ago:_

 

Mace Windu eyed the red laser grid that filled the room. “Your décor leaves much to be desired, Boda.”

“It does the job,” MonMassa replied. They had gathered in the Master of Shadows’s office on her invitation, an interruption that Qui-Gon was glad of. They all needed a break from attempting to coordinate an effective response to Rhen’s Disease, now that its true purpose was known.

Saesee was holding himself carefully upright, foregoing his usual disdainful slump. “You don’t often employ telepathic noisemakers,” he said, his expression pinched.

“My apologies, Saesee, but I believed it necessary today.” MonMassa turned her head to address the three of them. “I have a confirmed spy among Sidious’s ranks.”

“Whom you do not plan to name,” Mace guessed, steepling his fingers together.

“Not yet. I’ve chosen the three of you to carry this knowledge, so that there are other Masters in the Temple who will be aware of the spy’s existence. Should something happen to myself and Master Tholme, you will receive further information by personal courier.”

MonMassa looked at each of them in turn. “Master Tiin, you are not a Shadow, but you hold a permanent seat on the Reconciliation Council. Master Windu, you hold a permanent seat on the High Council, but you are not Head of the Order, which has diminished your chances of being targeted by outside forces. Master Jinn, you share in Master Windu’s position, though I am hopeful you will become a less visible target once Knight Kenobi is capable of resuming his seat.”

“This is more of a precaution than you typically rely on, Master of Shadows,” Mace said, frowning. “I’m used to you keeping Shadow business within your own agency.”

“Every new thing I learn makes me paranoid that we are at the cusp of calamity,” MonMassa retorted. “I shall take whatever measures are necessary to safeguard my Shadows, and the Order.”

The terminal comm on MonMassa’s desk pinged an incoming call, and then the speakers engaged—an override protocol, Qui-Gon suspected. “Master, you need to get down here _right now_.”

“Xavery?” MonMassa’s eyes widened in alarm. “What is wrong?”

“ _NOW,_ Master!” Xavery shouted, and cut the comm.

MonMassa slapped her hand on the panel that disabled the laser grid. The lasers vanished, freeing them from confinement. “With me,” MonMassa ordered, leading the way from her office.

The aura of disbelief/horror from the Shadows’ communications hub struck Qui-Gon before they could exit the turbolift. Qui-Gon reared back on instinct, tightening his shields before sharing a look with Mace.

Mace’s expression shifted into a grim scowl. “That’s never good.”

They entered the room to find all of MonMassa’s technicians and observers clustered in front of the bank of vidscreens. Tall man, black hair, lightsaber in his hand—that was Yuri Dravaco. The man seemed frantic, standing with other Shadows who had their backs to the camera.

“There are injured—and bodies,” Saesee said, staring up at the monitors.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Mace demanded.

Before anyone could answer, Venge emerged from the shadowy stone wall behind Dravaco and plunged a lightsaber into the man’s undefended back. The blade pierced his chest in a burst of bright green fire.

Dravaco’s mouth opened, his eyes wide in almost comical surprise. When the lightsaber was withdrawn, he fell to his knees and collapsed onto his side.

Qui-Gon stared at the monitor, frozen in place. Venge was standing over Dravaco’s body, green-bladed lightsaber in his right hand. His eyes burned with rage, brighter than Qui-Gon had ever seen.

_Oh, gods, Obi-Wan. What have you done?_

“He’s lost the fight,” Mace whispered, stunned. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, blessed gods,” MonMassa said in a faint voice, before visibly throwing off her shock. “Tierce, begin initializing Protocol One.”

“No!” Padawan Tkee shouted. Tears were streaming from her eyes. “Belay that, Tierce,” she said, waving off the Knight.

“Padawan, I know you like him, but—”

“Master, no. No.” Tkee wiped her eyes with her sleeves and emitted a loud sniffle. “It wasn’t him.

“It was Dravaco.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“I’m not ready,” Grierseer said in a disconsolate voice.

Fieff gave her a sympathetic smile. “But you will be, soon enough.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” she retorted, and then sighed. “Sorry. I think I’m still thrown by your sudden competence.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Fieff said, laying his hand over his heart as if wounded. “That’s damned flattering.”

“I’m really failing at convincing you that I’d like your help, aren’t I?” Grierseer smiled back. “I meant that you…well, you’re not who I once assumed you were. I like this version of you far better than your buffoonerous predecessor, by the way.”

“Most people do,” Fieff admitted. “I’m not giving up the mask entirely. It’s too useful.”

“I understand that,” Grierseer replied. “I have a few, myself.” She threw herself back on her bunk and gave vent to another sigh. “They won’t help me for this.”

“No, they won’t,” Fieff said, and raised an eyebrow when he caught Grierseer rubbing her shoulder with a pained look on her face. “It also won’t help to be a ball of quivering Zeltron tension.”

Grierseer eyed him. “That usually means something quite different.”

“And I’d happily volunteer, but you have a large Jedi Master boyfriend,” Fieff said, and patted the mattress bunk next to where he was sitting. “Get over here. Let’s start with unknotting your spine. Then we’ll talk shop about getting you ready for the Chamber.”

Grierseer pulled her tunics off to reveal the singlet underneath. To his delight, she had tiny dark red freckles liberally sprinkled across her shoulders.

“No, you are not the only one that the sun has kissed,” Grierseer smirked, noticing where his eyes had gone. She sat down next to him, presenting her back.

Fieff shook his head and set to work. Grierseer’s response to the massage was to make some truly epic distracting noises. “I am bruising your muscles trying to get you unwound, and you sound like you’re having an orgasm.”

“If this keeps going on long enough, I might,” Grierseer said, and moaned in bliss when he broke up a particularly dense cluster of muscles.

“We’re alone together in your room, Jaime,” Fieff reminded her. “I don’t need to be accused of impropriety by Dravaco, Kenobi, or especially by Tholme. That man would feed me my balls and make me like it if he thought I needed the lesson.”

Grierseer chuckled. “Perish the thought. I should still claim you while I have the chance.”

“If you and Dravaco break it off, you can come home to Ord Varee with me to meet my wife,” Fieff said, grinning in response to the casual flirting. “It’ll be my graduation present to us both.”

He meant the words to be teasing, but Grierseer’s good mood faltered again. “I may have to,” she said, sounding sad. “I was willing to give a relationship with Yuri a chance, but…but I _hate_ being monogamous. I don’t want to settle down with a single mate. That is for middle age, not youth.”

“He’s not willing to bend on that, huh?”

Grierseer shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Speaking of.” Fieff sensed the topic of conversation approach, and the door to Grierseer’s room hissed open. “Dravaco,” he said in greeting, not looking up from his work. He had one last stubborn damned knot, and Grierseer would be able to walk around without pain.

There was no response. Jaime turned her head towards the doorway. “Yuri?”

Fieff felt phantom prickling needles climb up his back and settle like icy spines at the base of his skull. He glanced up to find Dravaco still standing in the doorway, staring at them with an unreadable expression on his face.

Jaime scooted around so that she was sitting next to Fieff. “Yuri—are you all right?”

When Dravaco still didn’t respond, Fieff lifted his hand and waved. “Entrios to Dravaco.”

His only warning was Grierseer’s sharp intake of breath. Fieff lifted both arms, calling upon the Force, before he and Grierseer were both struck full on by a telekinetic maelstrom. The strength of it knocked him back over the bunk and onto the floor behind it. If he hadn’t gotten a partial shield up—

Fieff rolled over just in time to see the bunk ripped from its moorings and flung into the air. Everything in the room that could be lifted was flying upwards. He heard the sound of shattering glass, the shriek of stressed metal, tearing fabric—the storm was ripping everything it found to pieces.

Fieff got to his hands and knees, wincing when something hard glanced off of his shoulder. He couldn’t see Dravaco, not with everything in the way, but Grierseer was lying to his right, pressed up against the wall. She was staring at him with her hand clenched to her stomach. Silvery-red blood was leaking out from her fingers and staining her white singlet.

Fieff swallowed hard. He needed to get Dravaco the hell away from her, and he only knew one way to do it. He flung his hand outward in her direction, weaving the threads, and hoped it would be enough.

“Dravaco!” he shouted, standing up with shields firmly in place. The air was so thick with debris particles that breathing was like trying to eat sand.

The entire mess fell to the floor; the twisted remains of the metal bunk frame crashed down in front of Grierseer when Fieff gave it a little nudge.

Dravaco was standing just inside the room, blocking the doorway. His chest was heaving, his hair flying out in static-charged wisps. His eyes were alight—irises blazing yellow, the sclera bright red with blood.

 _He’s insane_ , Fieff realized, appalled. _Not just rage, but fucking_ insanity. _Dear gods, what the hell happened?_

Dravaco’s eyes darted over to Grierseer. Fieff’s gaze followed. Jaime was slumped where she’d landed, eyes open and staring at nothing. The wound in her stomach had turned her shirt red. Blood was starting to pool onto the floor next to her.

“Betraying Zeltron whore,” Dravaco hissed, hatred thickening his voice. “A fast death was too good for you.”

That settled the matter, as far as Fieff was concerned. He pulled out his lightsaber, igniting the warm orange blade.

He could almost hear that damned figment now. _You are going to die._

 _I could have figured that out on my own, thanks,_ Fieff groused, as Dravaco laughed and ignited his own green lightsaber.

His dueling skills had never been the best. He was no match for Yuri Dravaco…but he didn’t need to be.

“I told you to stay away from her,” Dravaco snarled, his eyes shining with terrible inner light. “You should have listened!”

That didn’t deserve a response. Fieff ran forward, slamming his blade into Dravaco’s lightsaber and forcing him to retreat from the cramped, destroyed room. He didn’t have to win this fight. He just needed to buy the others time to act.

He heard a shout, and running footsteps. Dravaco feinted, Fieff fell for it, and Dravaco slammed his fist into Fieff’s jaw.

Fieff stumbled back and fell on his ass, seeing bright sparks dance across his vision. He heard Vos exclaim, “Dravaco, what the fuck—”

There was a muffed thud and a crack. Fieff’s vision cleared, his blood running cold. He pulled himself to his feet and ran at Dravaco again, scoring a burn across Dravaco’s unprotected back. Dravaco roared and retreated—into the corridor, just like Fieff wanted him to.

Fieff darted out and caught a furious exchange of blows on his lightsaber, gritting his teeth as madness and homicidal rage beat against his mind. Bless all the gods that Kenobi had engaged all the Shadows in harsh practice duels. What could have been terrifying was just now something to be endured.

He pulled a play from Dravaco’s book and feinted with his blade, giving Dravaco a sharp kick to the elbow that definitely cracked bone. Dravaco dropped his guard but retreated in a Force-enhanced leap, out of range of Fieff’s blade. He switched his lightsaber to his left hand and resumed an offensive position, regarding Fieff with a chilling smile.

Fieff sucked in a breath and dared to glance down. Vos was on the floor, leaning against the corridor wall. Both of his hands were pressed to his chest at the junction of his ribs and sternum. His skin was gray, making the yellow band across his nose and cheeks stand out in bright relief.

“Go,” Vos said, managing a faint, crooked smile with bloodless lips. “Take him down, Fieff.”

“Stay alive, you reckless damned idiot,” Fieff said, refocusing on Dravaco. “Help’s coming.”

“Sweet-talker,” Vos wheezed, and then Fieff couldn’t spare another moment for him.

He fought his way down the corridor, pressing the only advantage he had as he forced Dravaco to retreat. The close walls kept Dravaco from gaining the upper hand, but the moment they entered the cathedral, Fieff was going to be in desperate trouble.

 _Where the hell is everyone?_ he wondered, but then he heard distant shouting. Thank the Force. He might not be able to defeat Dravaco on his own, but the cathedral would provide the best open area for a group of trained Shadows to do their jobs.

Fieff bundled up his strength into a tight manifestation and shoved at Dravaco. The Force push sent the other man flying back. Fieff followed, both of them crossing the threshold into the vast chamber. Dravaco regained his footing and charged Fieff, lightsaber raised.

He put up a good fight, but even bouts with Skaalka hadn’t done much to improve his lightsaber skills. Fieff’s strengths had always been in other areas. It was why he’d made such a damned good Shadow.

Fieff missed a parry; his lightsaber was severed near the top, an act that spared his fingers but left him with no blade to defend himself. He threw the useless, sparking hilt at Dravaco’s face, feeling grim amusement as it bounced off of Dravaco’s forehead when the other man didn’t duck quickly enough.

If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to do it in fear. Defiance was the best lesson Kenobi had to teach. Fieff flung his hand out, creating a telekinetic wall that hit Dravaco full on the face.

To his regret, it had little effect. “You always were a fool,” Dravaco said in a cold, mocking tone, just before he drove his lightsaber into the center of Fieff’s chest.

Fieff didn’t gasp. He didn’t have breath or lungs left for that. His pulse no longer sounded in his ears.

There was a scream, shouts of horror and disbelief, as Fieff stumbled backwards, away from the man who had killed him. His vision blurred, blackness taking over at the edges.

Fieff turned his head, and felt an intense pang of regret. Dravaco was on the move, ready to engage his next victim, and at the forefront of the approaching Shadows was an unarmed Healer.

Everything went black. The loss of sight didn’t stop him from feeling Su’um-Va’s death.

 _Stop him!_ Fieff shouted. _He’s lost to us!_

With that last thought shared, Fieff gathered himself up, all that he was, and leapt into the Force.

 

*          *          *          *

 

He was dreaming, a nightmare of twisting rock and ground that kept falling out from beneath his feet. There wasn’t enough light to see by, and every misstep was a stumble that he couldn’t afford to make.

The ground shifted again. He fell and started sliding down a rock face, grabbing a protrusion to keep from falling further. Then a hand came down on his, and he looked up to see—

Venge awoke to find a face too close to his own, a hand on his shoulder. Tachi shrieked indignantly as he tossed her across the room. She landed in a crouch on the wall before flipping over to hit the floor on her feet.

“Fuck,” Venge spat, as recognition filtered in. “Tachi!”

“You have to get up!” Tachi shouted back. “Something’s wrong!”

Venge sensed it, then, so strong he almost lost his breath. Immense hatred unfurled to the east, blooming like a supernova and saturating the whole of the Cathedral.

“Come on!” Tachi moved towards the door, but Venge shook his head.

“That will take too long,” he said, and pulled down the wide sheet of metal that was resting against the opposite wall from Tachi. “This way!” he ordered, and ran into the dark opening that had been hidden by warped metal.

Tachi was right on his heels, following him at a dead run. “You used Fire to bulldoze a tunnel that connects Posh to the Left?”

“Yes, but there’s a problem!” he yelled back.

“What?”

“It’s not finished yet!” Venge brought up all of the energy he could conjure on short notice and raised his hands. He pushed _out_ , releasing a great tidal wave of the Force that blew through the remaining layers of stone.

Venge halted just long enough for the last bits of heavy rock and rubble to fall, and then stepped out into the bright corridor of the Left Strip. Someone was leaning against the wall at the second junction.

“Vos,” Tachi said, a breath of horrified realization.

Venge dropped to his knees next to Quinlan, whose eyes flickered open at their approach. His features were pale and bloodless, his eyes glittering with the onset of shock.

“I’ll get Healers—” Tachi said, but Vos shook his head.

“No…time,” Vos rasped. Venge could feel him dying, one struggling, failing heartbeat at a time. His ribs were broken, the splinters of bone forced inward, tearing into his lungs and piercing his heart.

“Dravaco…save…” and those were the last words Vos was capable of speaking.

Venge placed his hands over Quinlan’s cold fingers. “Yes or no,” he said in a terse voice, barely able to speak past the rage swelling in his chest. Sith healing was not about comfort and relief. His friend deserved to have a choice.

Quinlan stared at him, and then gave a shallow, jerking nod of his head. Venge hissed in a breath and then let the rage take him. Darkness poured down his arms like burning lines of acid as they surged into Quinlan’s body. Vos gasped, too weak to scream, as the energy tore through his chest.

Through the red haze that settled over his vision, Venge could feel it. The energy jerked ribs back into place, uncaring if new holes were torn. Bone was forced to grow while blood still filled Quinlan’s lungs, as his heart struggled helplessly against new damage.

Venge pushed harder, redirecting fluid where it was meant to be. Tissue formed and sealed both old and new damage. Quinlan’s choking breaths became loud, agonized screaming.

Tachi grabbed ahold of Venge’s shoulders and jerked him back. Venge fell onto the floor, bashing his head against the metal plating. The haze of red cleared away, but he still felt the energy twisting in his body, seeking any avenue of escape.

He was going to fucking well give it one.

Venge climbed to his feet. “Tachi?”

Tachi nodded, her hands pressed to Vos’s throat. Vos’s eyes were closed, his expression pained, but color was already returning to his skin. “He’s okay. Just unconscious.”

“Thank you for doing that,” Venge said, and went into the wrecked remains of Grierseer’s quarters.

Grierseer was slumped in the corner, surrounded by a pool of silvery-red Zeltron blood. “Oh, that’s well done,” Venge whispered, and then ripped away the Force Illusion.

“Jaime,” he said, crouching down next to her.

Grierseer looked at him, pale and weak from blood loss but not yet close to death. Her injuries were bad, but survivable. “Fieff…he saved me.”

“What happened?” His voice was low and intense.

“Dravaco.” Grierseer swallowed. “Kenobi—he looked at us. We were just sitting here, but Yuri looked at us, and he _broke_ —oh, gods, Fieff!” she cried, just as Venge felt the other Shadow’s death.

“Stay here.”

Venge went back out into the corridor. “Stay with Vos. Grierseer is inside—make sure the Healers find her.”

“What are you going to do?” Tachi asked, and then her mouth fell open, her eyes widening in horror. “No. No, no, no—please no, not—”

The second death struck him hard. Half of his barriers on Fire melted like they had never existed. “Su’um-Va.”

Venge lifted his hands. Sparks were dancing at his fingertips.

He looked down at Tachi. Shocked tears were rolling down her face. “Stay,” he said again, his voice hard. With a thought, he shattered half of the lights in the corridor, plunging the bright space into a realm of shadows.

Venge ducked through the largest patch of darkness and emerged near the Cathedral’s exterior doors, lightsaber already grasped in his hand. Dravaco was standing several meters from the Left Strip exit, his back to the wall. All of the remaining Shadows were facing him, lightsabers raised and defending themselves against Dravaco’s frenzy.

His eyes flickered to the robe on the floor near Dravaco’s feet, then to Su’um-Va. The Healer had landed face down, arm still outstretched to ward off what must have been an unexpected blow. Abella was next to him, her eyes full of grief even as she shouted at Dravaco in an endless litany of Chitanook invectives.

None of them would have expected this. Venge was supposed to be the sole unstable entity in the Cathedral.

 _He_ had not expected this. That made his blood boil with almost as much fury as the rage that Sidious inspired.

There was a shadow on the wall. It was small, but part of it rested on the floor. It would be enough to allow his passage.

Venge ducked back through the wall and emerged behind Dravaco. Without pause, he shoved his lightsaber through the man’s back, burying it to the hilt.

Dravaco gurgled, voicing shock with the last bit of air trapped in his throat. Venge stepped close. “I warned you,” he whispered, and then yanked his lightsaber free. Dravaco fell to his knees, and then slowly toppled onto his side, dead before his body hit the floor.

Venge stared down at the body. Fire was clawing at him, shrieking defiance as it demanded further deaths. He shut down his lightsaber and reattached it to his belt with shaking hands.

He looked up when he heard someone approaching at a run. Tholme came out of the Central corridor, unlit lightsaber in his hands. He slowed to a halt at seeing the fight completed. “Depa is with Ra’um-Ve,” he said, a statement that caused Venge a deep, internal pang. “My Padawan—”

“Vos will live,” Venge said, and Tholme closed his eyes in visible relief.

The other Shadows still surrounded him in a loose semi-circle. “Are you going to lose yourself, too?” Kurri asked, caution writ large in every line of her body.

“No.” Venge eyed the air before him. “You may not like what comes next.”

Skaalka’s words emerged as a growl. “What come next?”

“Answers,” Venge hissed, and gave Fire a bit of what it wanted. He poured energy into the shade he’d trapped, holding onto Dravaco’s spirit and refusing to let go.

Swirls of blue appeared first, slowly gaining form and substance. Venge snarled and let loose with a great burst of power, feeding it until Dravaco’s spirit hovered before the gathered Shadows. His face was a rictus mask of rage; his body twisted and turned like a feral beast trying to escape a cage.

“Oh, gods.” Fa’an lowered her lightsaber in surprise. “I can see him.”

“We can all see him,” Herssella growled, her talons scraping against the floor and throwing up sparks.

“What are you doing?” Gyre was staring, aghast.

“Keeping him from leaving,” Venge said, clenching his right hand into a fist. Dravaco’s voice faded in and out before surging into full volume, an insane cacophony of shouts, insults, and swearing.

“Shut up!” Venge snapped, the words lashing through the created Force ghost. Dravaco fell silent, his face reflecting childish mutiny. “I have never wanted to torture someone so much in my _life_.” Venge gained control of himself with effort. “But, I promised that I would not.”

Dravaco smiled at him. There was nothing sane in his gaze. “Fuck you.” The words were understandable, but filled with strange distortion, like a comm fighting a jammer.

Venge raised an eyebrow. “While I am normally fond of defiance, you don’t get to complete your journey across the gray place until you tell us what the _fuck_ just happened.”

“Betrayal,” the spirit hissed. “I walked in, and she was with _him!_ She deceived me, just like Nancini!”

Venge realized, too late, the source of Yuri Dravaco’s intriguing, complex shielding. Not barriers at all, but partitions. Dissociation. “You killed her.”

“Oh, dearest gods of the sky,” Kurri whispered. “Yuri Dravaco, what the hell have you done?”

Dravaco’s form contorted, whirling and misshapen. “I finished a mission early, and thought to surprise my Nancini.” His lips moved soundlessly, his face twisted with hatred and despair. “I found her in bed with another!”

Kurri emitted a faint, distressed moan. “That’s what you meant. You told Vos that Nancini had begged you not to.”

“Nancini was begging him not to kill her.” Tholme’s lips were pressed to a thin line as he gazed at the spirit in distaste. “I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing.”

“I knew better,” Dravaco spat. “She didn’t mean it. It was all lies! I killed them both and hid their bodies. They may have found Nancini, but they’ll never find Martiin.”

“Shit!” Fa’an’s eyes flared with anger. “That was Nancini’s work partner.”

“By the time I went back to Coruscant, I’d buried them, and everything I’d ever hoped for.” Dravaco devolved into wordless muttering again.

Venge glanced at Tholme. “He obscured his own memories. He made himself forget what he’d done.”

That caught Dravaco’s attention. “And then! I walk in, and it’s the same thing all over again! Jaime lied! She lied! She was with _him!”_

 _We weren’t doing a damned thing, you fucking nut,_ Fieff said. Unlike Dravaco, Fieff’s voice was clear and strong, if filled with annoyance. Venge glanced around and saw no one reacting to Fieff’s comment, so he pretended to ignore it.

“What about Vos, Dravaco?” Venge asked. “Did he betray you, too?”

Dravaco sneered. “Jaime and Fieff deserved what they got. Vos was in my way.”

“And Suva?” Tachi asked. She was approaching with Vos, whose arm was slung over her shoulders. Vos looked like thousands of lightyears of bad travel, and glowered at Dravaco in open contempt.

 _“You complete fucking bastard,”_ Tachi seethed, her eyes still streaming tears. “What did Su’um-Va do to you that was so fucking awful?”

For the first time, Dravaco seemed confused. “What? Wait—nothing. I didn’t—”

 _Oh. Oh, no,_ Venge thought, seeing the hints of the past, pattern and probability, drift outward from where Dravaco hovered. This madness was no recent thing. “Who else, Dravaco? You’ve killed someone else, I can _see_ it.”

Dravaco collapsed into a ball of writhing energy. He reformed, his features warping as confusion gave way to dark, bitter hatred. “Rygel Wyr.”

“Oh, fuck,” Greegor blurted in shock.

“You killed your own Master?” Breegin was dumbfounded. “By the Force, _why?”_

The question broke what was left of Dravaco’s sanity. “Because I hated him!” he shrieked. His form disintegrated completely into a chaotic mass. “He never gave me the one thing I asked of him!”

“What did you ask of him, Yuri Dravaco?” Herssella asked in a harsh voice, seeking to pry information from a soul lost to Darkness and madness.

When he answered, Dravaco’s voice was young and broken. “I just wanted him to like me.”

Venge almost stumbled backwards, biting his lip against the pain echoing out from Dravaco. He could see too much of Dravaco’s existence, a boy guided by a Master who saw emotion as nothing more than an exploitable weakness to purge. Dravaco swallowed the lesson, but could never succeed at it. He set emotions aside as things that would lead him to Darkness and loss, while craving the very thing that his emotions could give him—a connection that would lead out of ice and shadow.

It went against everything Venge knew of the Force. No Jedi could live in such a cold, heartless state, not and remain sane.

“Don’t linger,” Venge said in a choked voice. “Do not stay here. It will not help you, nor will we appreciate your continued presence.”

 _I’ll help him._ Fieff sounded resigned. _Daft fucking idiot._

Venge released his hold on Dravaco. The spiritual energy broke apart and vanished, leaving intense silence in its wake.

Tachi gulped and left Vos with Tholme. She walked on unsteady feet to where Abella knelt next to Su’um-Va. “Bella? Can I—”

Abella shook her head. “No, Siri. That wouldn’t be—the lightsaber did a lot of damage,” she said in a quavering voice. Tachi fell down on her knees next to Su’um-Va’s body, sobbing and keening out utter heartbreak.

The sight of his friends’ grief snapped the last of his barriers. Fire surged forward, looking to escape.

Venge turned away from them all before that happened, walking halfway across the cathedral before he let loose a bloodcurdling scream. Rage and grief poured out in a horrific purge of caustic energy. He kept screaming, his eyes burning, throat raw, as streams of violet mist and blue lightning coalesced into a maelstrom…

…and then the wormhole opened.

Venge stared up at the Force Storm, stunned into complete unintelligibility.   It was a stable portal of energy that glowed and fluoresced like a living thing. Violet edges tapered to pale green whirls, merging together to become a black vortex at the center of the wormhole. He could see discharges of blue lightning within the darkness, hints of the passage beyond.

 _Grief._   He felt frozen in place, fascinated by the dark beauty of what he had conjured. _The third element is grief._

Then he thought, in complete bafflement: _Grief?_

Venge sensed a few of the others approach, slow and cautious. “Are you gonna throw Dravaco’s body into that thing?” Vos asked.

That threw off the hypnotic spell. “Can we?” It was certainly an appealing thought.

“No,” Tholme said. “Much as I am tempted to allow it.”

“Get rid of Storm,” Skaalka suggested.

“That is an excellent idea.” Venge tilted his head, regarding the shining mass. “I have no idea how to do so.”

“Are you telling us that you built a damned Force Storm, with no idea on how to dismantle it?” Tholme’s cool voice had dropped into heated outrage.

“I didn’t intend to make this in the first place.” Venge held out his hand. “Someone give me a credit chit.”

“Owe me money,” Skaalka grumbled, but pressed a heavy Republic fifty-piece into his palm.

Venge took one final look at the deceptively peaceful storm, and then threw the credit chit right into the center of the vortex. The chit was wreathed by several strands of crackling blue lightning before disappearing. The Force Storm contracted; in seconds it had narrowed down to a single, ethereal green point before it ceased to exist.

“Guess it was just hungry,” Vos said, broken humor in his voice.

“Where credit go?” Skaalka wanted to know.

“I have no idea,” Venge said. He was beginning to realize that Fire was quiet, the lowest ebb he’d experienced since he had first been dosed. With so much energy poured into the Storm’s creation, there was no horrible press on his thoughts—his barriers against Fire had all but restored themselves.

Then the awareness came of what final task still lay before him. His heart constricted; his chest felt like he had been trapped in a vise. “Ra’um-Ve,” he breathed, and turned on his heel to find Su’um-Va’s twin sister.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Depa had stayed with her, as Tholme had said. Ra’um-Ve was lying atop the medical bunk closest to the door, her arms folded across her stomach as she rested in quiet repose. Her dark violet skin had lost most of its color, and her chest barely rose with each breath.

“She collapsed the moment that Su’um-Va died.” Depa brushed Ra’um-Ve’s short hair away from her forehead before looking up at Venge. Her dark eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

“She’s dying,” Depa said in a soft voice. “Is there anything to be done?”

Venge stared at the prone Healer. “No,” he answered, his voice cracking. Ra’um-Ve and Su’um-Va had succeeded in their early Mastery because they shared the whole of their gifts with each other. Unlike a stable Lifebond, the twins had bonded so tightly that their psyches were intertwined, their auras melting into each other. Their connection would not allow one to survive without the other. Not for long.

Venge sighed, grateful that the unexpected Storm had burnt most of the compulsion of Fire from his system. He wanted to feel this moment as it happened, not be battered by it later.

He refused to stand by and watch her suffer until her body gave out.

Venge rested his fingers atop Ra’um-Ve’s hand and bent down over the bed, the fall of his hair brushing over the Healer’s still features. “Ra’um-Ve. I know that you can hear me,” he said, murmuring quiet words into her ear. “I ripped out my own damned connection to the Force, once, trying to die, but there is an easier way. Gather yourself up. Find all of yourself, everything you are. You are a Mind Healer; you know of what I speak. Take hold of that connection. Breathe in the Force, pull it free, and let it carry _all_ of you through the veil.”

He swallowed hard, and added, “I am so fucking sorry, Rava.”

 _You did nothing wrong, dearheart,_ Ra’um-Ve said, her mental voice faint and fading. Her eyes flickered open, irises a pale hint of gray.

“Thank you,” Ra’um-Ve whispered, smiling. The feel of warm skin under his fingertips vanished as she faded into the Force.

“Oh, blessed stars,” Depa breathed. Tears gathered and fell, glistening on her cheeks. “You told her how to discorporate.” He nodded. “Is it always so easy?”

“No.” Venge touched the rucked sheet, which was still warm from Ra’um-Ve’s body. “For some, it is always beyond the realm of possibility. Many shy away from what it takes to truly know all of ones’ self.” He felt brief, bitter amusement as he stepped away from the empty bed. “At least now it cannot be argued that discorporation is a myth.”

“Where are you going?” Depa asked, grief set aside long enough to express concern.

Venge glanced back over his shoulder. “I am going to my quarters. I’m going to seal the door and destroy every single fucking thing in there aside from myself.”

“Obi-Wan—”

“No, Depa,” he tried to say, but it came out as a howl of anguish, one he cut short by clenching his jaw shut. “No. My control is…not good. Please warn the others not to attempt to gain entry until I come back out.”

Depa lifted her head. He could tell that she was not pleased, but there was nothing to be done about that. “Should I—should Tholme or I contact the Temple? The Council—”

“No.” Venge felt the first stirrings of that crackling ice. “They already know.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

When Venge returned to the medical bay hours later, the first bed was still empty. Ra’um-Ve’s robe had been draped over it; her lightsaber rested atop the dark blue cloth.

Abella was curled up on the second bed, so deeply asleep she appeared to be unconscious. Jaime Grierseer was in the third bed, and opened her eyes at his approach.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“Yes.” Grierseer was still pale, but he could sense recent healings had been performed. “Zarin Har found your tunnel. He stayed with me while Vos and Tachi went to the cathedral.”

That explained why he hadn’t seen the Bothan Healer during the confrontation with Dravaco. “Good.”

Grierseer gave him a tremulous smile. “I can hear Fieff.”

“I can, too,” Venge said, sitting down next to her.

“I thought you probably could,” she said, her voice breaking with grief. “I didn’t mention it to the others.”

“They will hear him, eventually.” Venge sighed. “It’s a part of the journey of the Whills.”

Her brow wrinkled. “What does that mean?”

Venge smiled without humor. “It’s very old Alderaanian shamanism. The way of the Whills is a journey of…of excruciating self-discovery.”

“Well,” Grierseer sniffed, “that sounds accurate. My lover killed three of our friends, and tried his best to kill me. It feels painful enough.”

Venge placed his hand on the bed, near hers. He didn’t want to be touched, but he still understood the need to offer comfort. Grierseer placed her hand upon his, so that their fingers meshed, but did not attempt to squeeze or entrap his hand. She understood his difficulty without a word needing to be said.

“When I introduced you to the Sith holocrons, why didn’t you tell the others that you could discern the real from the fake?”

Grierseer’s smile was bitter. “I’m a Zeltron. Our empathy is a thing to be scorned or feared, and my gift is very strong.” She sighed. “When Yuri…when Dravaco entered my room. I could feel him struggling with his thoughts, and then…”

“He broke,” Venge said.

She nodded, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. “I could feel him _shatter._ It was the only warning we had.”

“And that, Jaime Grierseer, is why I wanted you here,” Venge said, and hesitated. “I will understand, however, if you decide to leave.”

Grierseer’s gaze became resolute steel. “After all that’s happened, I would be a coward to walk away.”

“I wouldn’t think you a coward.”

She acknowledged him with a slight nod. “I…I appreciate that, but I’m going to walk into that Chamber of Trial, and I’m going to walk out again. Then, I’m going to take Fieff’s belongings to his family on Ord Varee.” Regret etched her features. “He wanted me to meet his wife. I don’t think this is what he had in mind.”

Zarin Har and Tholme met him in the corridor just outside medical. “We’ll have company in two days,” Tholme said. “At least half of the High Council, but the full Reconciliation Council.”

“I know.” Venge glanced up when the lights flickered.

“It’s been happening for hours,” Har told him. “Ever since…you know.”

Venge nodded. “It’s Dravaco.”

Tholme huffed out an annoyed breath. “The Cathedral does not need to be haunted by the ghost of a psychopath.”

 _I’ve already given up._ Fieff sounded disgusted. _There’s not enough left of him to shove through the gray place._

“He’s harmless,” Venge said, and felt a stab of regret. Dravaco had been lost to them years ago, but it was still a loss. “He doesn’t have enough of his own mind left to be anything more than an electrical nuisance.”

“Oh, that will be so much fun to explain to everyone else who uses this facility.” Har sighed. “I’m going to check on my patient,” he said, and went into the medical suite.

Tholme gave Venge a somber look. “Thank you. Thank you for saving my Padawan.”

“You know that I hurt him.” Venge stared back. “That it will likely remain the most painful thing Vos will ever experience in his life.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tholme retorted, and then smiled. “He’s alive, and that’s what I care about.”

Venge had no idea what to say to that, and Tholme likely knew it. Quinlan’s teacher just nodded once and walked away, leaving Venge standing alone in the corridor.

He sensed Fieff’s continued presence, stronger than it had been in the cathedral. “And what about you, Colm Fieff? Are you staying?”

_Just for a little while. Jaime is going to Ord Varee, so I’m sort of going to…ah, hitch a ride. I need to go home._

“Oh?”

_I promised my daughter that I’d haunt her. I’m a man of my word._

“She sounds like an interesting child,” Venge murmured.

 _She is_ , Fieff said, pleasure and pride in his voice. Venge tilted his head in quiet acknowledgement before moving on.

Venge met Vos at the last junction in the corridor. “You should be sleeping,” Venge said, noting the sheen of perspiration on Vos’s skin, and the bruises under his eyes.

Vos grimaced. “I should, but we’re all wound too damned tight. Kurri is pacing a hole through the decking in the Left Strip, Skaalka hasn’t spoken a word of Basic since the wormhole, and Gyre is in the process of taking apart every single bit of tech he can get his hands on. The Bo twins pulled out every knife they’ve got, and…” He shrugged. “Well, MonMassa should be used to property damage by now. Herssella went out to hunt, but she promised no blood magic.”

There were two names missing, one of whom he wanted to find. “Tachi?”

Vos’s smile was faint and sad. “Fa’an’s with her. She’s over there, where…”

Venge nodded in understanding. “Thank you,” he said, and went into the cathedral.

Fa’an was kneeling on the ground next to Tachi, who was sitting with her arms resting across her knees, staring at the far wall without blinking. Su’um-Va’s body had been removed, to be prepared for a later pyre, but he knew that Tachi rested where the Healer had fallen.

Venge waved for Fa’an to remain where she was. He sat down at Tachi’s opposite side, and was not surprised when she leaned in against his arm. The contact made his skin crawl, but Siri was his friend, and he was damned if Fire was going to interfere with what she needed from him in that moment.

Siri said nothing, and didn’t seem to need any other sort of reassurance from him. Long minutes of quiet stillness drove him to speak first.

“Siri, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Siri sat up and glared at him. Her eyes were reddened, her skin blotchy from hours of grief. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize.”

Venge reared back in surprise. “Tachi—”

Siri shook her head, her voice softening. “This is not your fault. You heard him—Dravaco came here broken. He just hid it well.”

“I am not sorry for _that,_ ” Venge said. It would be a cold, bitter day if he ever regretted killing Dravaco. Regret of lost potential was one thing; regret over the fate of a willing murderer was something else entirely.

“Good. Because neither am I,” Siri retorted.

“I’m…” Venge faltered. “No one should know what this kind of loss feels like.”

Siri bit her lip. “You do. You’re the only person in the Cathedral who knows exactly how I feel.”

She rested her head against his shoulder again, and accepted Fa’an’s hand when the other woman offered it. “I’m just glad you dealt with Dravaco. I don’t need that kind of temptation.”

“Would it have been?” Venge asked. He suspected he knew the answer, but sometimes it wasn’t about knowing. It was about speaking the words.

Tachi sighed. “No. Even when I saw Suva…I just wanted the others to _stop_ him. I didn’t think about killing him until you did it for us.”

Fa’an’s chuckle was hesitant, but honest. “It was quite the surprise when you emerged from the wall, Kenobi.”

“I imagine Dravaco thought so, too.”

Tachi didn’t laugh. “Teach me how to shadow-walk, Obi-Wan. We’re Shadows. It’s about time we acted like we’re not afraid of the dark.”

“I will tell you how,” Venge said. Instruction might not be enough; Kuro had been explicit about shadow-walking’s difficulties. “But not tonight.”

“No,” Fa’an agreed in a soft voice. “Tonight is for the dead.”


End file.
